Firstly, my name—Kojo. Just after the war my parents were stationed in Japan, as part of a medical team & civilian aid program. They were stationed in an old castle, a 14th century Shogun's fort, where I was conceived. The name for this type of castle in the local dialect was "Kojo" and hence my parents, always a little bohemian in their personal lives, named me the same. Ironic that, years later, the Beckhams did a similar thing by calling their son Brooklyn.

Secondly, how did I get started in this business? I suppose my entry into the world of erotica could be described as through the back door - no pun intended. I was only a young man, and having only recently graduated from Cambridge in Oriental Languages, had embarked on a career with the British Foreign Office. I was assigned quite quickly for a man of my age to be the liaison between the UK Consulate and the French Ambassador's Office in South Vietnam.

Many people think that the French withdrew completely from Indochine in 1954, however they retained a small diplomatic mission there throughout the American backed South Vietnamese administration of 1954 - 1975. For me, it wasn't a high profile or prestigious appointment, but having grown up in rural Perthshire and been educated in the cloistered world of post-war Cambridge, it was a thrill a minute.

While there, I became good friends with the French Ambassador's cultural attaché - who introduced me to the Ambassador himself, and his family. It was, and still is, a beautiful country with very warm people and excellent cuisine. I enjoyed it immensely - well, up to 1967, when I returned to swinging sixties London! But that is another story.

Anyway, it was early 1966, and one evening I was sipping an excellent Chateau Pichon Longville Lalande 1928 (the French do like to travel with fine wines, fortunately) when the Ambassador was called away, leaving me with his wife.

It was a quiet weekend, as much of the war turned out to be for us, safe in the confines of the French Embassy in Saigon. The Ambassador was going to be away some time, deep in talks with the US Administration, and this gave me an opportunity to play bridge and discuss topical matters with his beautiful wife, Veronique. As the evening wore on, we opened another bottle of the strong, blackcurrant-flavoured wine, and became a little tipsy.

I had been showing them my new Zeiss camera during the evening, something which Veronique seemed very interested in. She loved my pictures of the embassy and gardens, which I gave her as a gift. I was getting up to leave when she said, "Kojo, I must show you something."

Intrigued, I followed her as she led me by the hand upstairs to the bedroom.

“But Madame," I stuttered "It would not be proper to enter a ladies bedroom..."

“Nonsense!" she laughed. "You'll be quite safe!"

Inside the room the sweet smell of oriental lilies and French lavender made a thick atmosphere in the humid night, outside, the jasmine flowers added to the rich flavours of the night air. She walked over to her dresser, and withdrew a leather-bound photo album and passed it to me. Inside were exquisite sepia photos of a young beauty posing naked in the gardens of a Chateau.

“This is me," she said. "Twenty years ago, taken by Henri."

Henri was the Ambassador himself! I could hardly believe it!

“Next month Henri is going to be 60, and for that I would like to give him another set of photos, this time as a surprise".

I was shocked, but intrigued. Veronique was 15 years younger than the Ambassador, and retained a beautiful pear-shaped figure, one which I knew instinctively would make excellent photos.

"But when would I take them?" I asked

"Right now!" she said, and burst out laughing. That evening, with the half-light of the moon and the flickering electric lights, she posed nude for me in different rooms of the house - draping herself like an exquisite Grecian statue across the heavy velvets and crisp white lace of her bedroom, dressing room and bathroom.

I developed the pictures late into the night, back at my quarters in a cupboard come dark room I had fashioned myself. I mounted the prints in a fine Vietnamese silk portfolio and returned them to Veronique the very next day. I felt quite nervous, as she leafed slowly through the pages, laughing and sighing at them.

She looked at me and smiled. "Merci bien, mon petit!" she smiled and kissed me affectionately on the cheek.

Some weeks later, I received a call from the Ambassador's secretary requesting my immediate attention at the Ambassador's residence. Looking at my calendar I knew his birthday had just passed and I suspected the worst. In those days, many men would have beaten you within an inch of your life for such a transgression!

I arrived, and was ushered into the Ambassador's smoking room to find him, looking sternly through the pictures, in silence.

"You took these, Monsieur Black, n'est-ce pas?" he muttered darkly.

"Yes sir" I answered, expecting the worst.

"Mmmmm, what can I say?" He looked up and stared into my eyes. "Except, magnifique!" and roared with laughter.

I sat down; half relieved, half a nervous wreck as he continued, pouring me a large cognac in the process.

"This is real talent, Kojo, real art mon fils. Tres jolie - eh - very good!. In my day, I was a photographer amateur, but this is fantastique. " I slurped the brandy, half in disbelief.

"I thought you would be angry, sir" I said.

"Angry, why? This is art erotique! It is a masterpiece and, I might add, has added something to my love life which has been missing for some time! Passion! Now listen to me, I insist, you must consider my words carefully. My work is for men who lead long and difficult lives, in dusty rooms with a papers and little else for comfort. You have a gift for capturing women this way - and many people will love to see photos of their own lovers and beauties like this. So I ask you, make a decision - the life of a diplomat, or of the photographic artist, do not dabble in both and succeed at neither, comprendez-vous?"

I left the Ambassador's house that day, deep in thought. What should I do with my life, a question which burdens all men in their young years. As I left, the Ambassador gave me a gift, a box of assorted French sweets, Turkish Delight, caramelised peanuts, and candied fruits.

"For you," he smiled "some petit-fors, how do you say it in English, ah yes - sweatmeats - which like women, come in many different shapes, sizes, colours and flavours - but all are equally as delicate, sweet and desirable to a man with good taste and passion. Au revoir"

The rest, is history - but my path in life, both as a photographer and filmmaker, and even the name of my company, was set on that day in March 1966.